


Marcus Aurelius

by sonic_counselor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, dorks being dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonic_counselor/pseuds/sonic_counselor
Summary: “Why – and also, how – are you reading messages I sent Scott? Seems rude, even for you.”“You sent them to me.”“No I didn’t.”“Yes, you did,” Derek huffs.###Or, why drunk texting may or may not be a terrible thing.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 15
Kudos: 313





	Marcus Aurelius

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiremanSam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiremanSam/gifts).



> I have no clue when this is set, take your pick. Personally, I'll be pretending it's 2012 and we're all still in that happy place between season 2 ending and season 3 crapping on all our dreams.
> 
> Gifted to my wonderful best friend. Thank you for being in my life.

**To Scott - 00:03**  
you kkow that quote?  
  
**To Scott - 00:03**  
From that movie with that guy?? and he fights other gusy?  
  
**To Scott - 00:05**  
“what we do in life echos in eternity” the guy in the movie says it but really it wa soxrates or one of those hush who said it  
  
**To Scott - 00:06  
***guys not hush

 **To Scott - 00:08  
**ive been thinking bout it and I’ve decided my eternity echo is gonna be doing derek

 **To Scott - 00:09  
**is that asking to much???

 **To Scott - 00:11  
**there must be worst eternity echos right

 **To Scott - 00:14  
**There’d be some eternity bragging rights for that right? getting plowed by derek hale??

 **To Scott - 00:14  
**I bet his dick is amazin

 **To Scott - 00:15  
**Like should be illegal levels of amazing

 **To Scott - 00:16  
**AMAZING

 **To Scott - 00:17  
**why aren’t you replying?

 **To Scott - 00:17  
**prude

 **To Scott - 00:18  
**im not asking for much...just for derek gale to fuck me so hard i see god

 **To Scott - 00:19  
***hale my fingers are drunk

 **To Scott - 00:21  
**is that really too much to ask for?

 **To Scott - 00:27  
**Earth to Scott

His phone chooses that moment to start ringing, loudly, and Stiles _absolutely_ doesn’t yelp and drop it in shock. The shock gives way to gut wrenching horror though when he actually looks at the screen and sees Derek’s name flashing up. That sobers him up like nothing else ever has before, because why in the hell is Derek calling him at nearly one am? Can Derek smell when people are having inappropriate thoughts about him? Before he has to make a choice of whether to take the call or decline it, his voicemail kicks in and the screen darkens again.

Except that’s only a temporary reprieve because his phone is lighting up, again. And ringing, loudly, again. And flashing Derek’s name at him, again.

“Um, you realise it’s like one AM, right? Why are you calling me?” He asks, finally plucking up the courage to answer.

“Marcus Aurelius.”

“Polo?” Stiles asks: stupidly, his brain helpfully supplies.

“‘What we do in life’?” Derek answers. “Marcus Aurelius, not Socrates. Or Marco,” he adds after a beat.

Stiles actually feels more than a little sick at that because how in the actual fuck does Derek know about the messages he’s been sending to Scott?

“Um.”

“It’s not the original quote,” Derek continues, like this is an entirely normal conversation for them to be having. “They paraphrased it for the movie. Which is Gladiator. In case you were wondering.”

“I’m not?” Stiles replies, voice brittle. “Why – and also, how – are you reading messages I sent Scott? Seems rude, even for you.”

“You sent them to me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Derek huffs.

“No, because why would I send them to you and not Scott?” Stiles grits out. “How would your name be next to Scott in my contacts?”

“How should I know?” Derek asks; even over the phone Stiles can _hear_ the exasperation and eyerolling. He pulls his phone away from his ear and scowls at it before navigating to his contacts and scrolling through to ‘D’: to his horror, Derek isn’t where he’s supposed to be and he works his way through the rest of his contacts, feeling like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach when he finds Derek listed under ‘stupid sexy face ’, right below Scott. It had seemed like a good idea a few hours ago when he’d been drunkenly waxing lyrical to Kira about how criminally unfair Derek’s face and ass and frankly, everything, is. Now it seems like it’s so far away from a good idea that it can’t even poke a good idea with a very long stick.

Knowing that Derek has read all of his messages, in all their embarrassingly pathetic desperate detail is making him feel physically sick and he stares down at his phone for a moment longer before doing the mature thing and hanging up on Derek. For good measure, he turns it off too. And just to be on the safe side, in case that good measure isn’t good enough, shoves it to the very back of one of the his desk drawers. He might or might not also push his desk chair up against the drawer, just in case his phone thinks about trying something in the night.

And then, because you can never be too careful when it comes to phones, he pulls his comforter up over his head and tries to will himself to sleep.

**###**

“Good Morning!”

Stiles groans at his dad’s bright, booming greeting as he slinks into the kitchen and pulls open the fridge, peering listlessly at its contents.

“Is it?”

“Sure,” his dad replies, “to those of us without hangovers.”

“‘m not hungover,” Stiles grouses. He pulls out a carton of orange juice, giving it an experimental shake before crossing over to the table and dropping down into one of the chairs. His dad scowls as he takes a swig straight from the carton. He sinks lower in his seat and props one foot up on the chair opposite. “If you must know, I’m dying of embarrassment. I might not make it through the day.”

“I’ll look forward to the peace and quiet,” his dad teases. His chair scrapes against the tile as he stands, making Stiles wince. “We use glassware in this house,” he reprimands, setting a tumbler down in front of Stiles and taking the carton from him before he can gulp down another mouthful of juice. “And what have you done this time?”

“You realize there’s like, two mouthfuls left?” Stiles complains and grabs the carton back from his dad. “I’m saving on doing dishes. You know, saving the _planet_ ,” he continues huffily but pours the rest of the juice into the glass anyway. “And I might have accidentally clued in, um, someone I like that I like them. I was supposed to be texting Scott only I wasn’t and I may have said some things that I’d never actually say to, y’know, this person and I’m about 900% certain they won’t ever want speak to me again after what I said.”

“I’m sure –” his dad starts.

“It can’t be that bad?” Stiles finishes for him. “Want a bet?” He pulls his cell out of his pocket and holds it out to his dad, waggling it when his dad doesn’t take it. “Go on, read them and then try telling me it’s not that bad.”

“I think I’ll pass,” his dad replies; both his tone and expression suggesting he definitely has no desire to find out just how depraved Stiles’ mind might be. “But if _you_ really think it’s that terrible and that you shouldn’t have said what you did, why don’t you go apologize to Derek?”

“I never said it was Derek,” Stiles protests, although he can feel his cheeks flushing tellingly as he glares down at the table.

“You think you need to?” His dad laughs, although not unkindly. “I know you think your detective skills are far superior to your old man’s but I’ve been doing this since before you were born, kiddo. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Stiles snorts derisively as he pulls at the bottom of the juice carton and flattens it out. “My skills _are_ far superior,” he says, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice because being called out on his can-see-it-from-space-it’s-so-epic crush on Derek is not what he signed up for but neither is having a fight with his dad when it feels like someone put his brain in a blender.

“Is that right?” His dad asks with a laugh as he loads his plate and mug into the dishwasher. As Stiles watches he crosses the kitchen, opening the narrow junk cupboard door and pulling something out. “Here,” he continues, setting down a box of Tylenol extra strength in front of Stiles, a knowing expression on his face. “For the hangover you don’t have.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles can see his dad checking his watch out of the corner of his eye as he throws down two tablets with the last of his juice.

“I gotta run,” his dad tells him, “but I’ll be home around six tonight. Dinner? If you’re home?”

Stiles nods absentmindedly, watches his dad pull his jacket on and carry out his routine pocket patting check.

“Go talk to Derek,” his dad adds as he gathers up his keys from the side. “It’s about time you two worked things out.”

“Worked things out? There isn’t anything to _work out_ ” Stiles scoffs with a shake of his head. “Unless you’re suggesting I help him draw up a complex and thorough plan on how to avoid me until the end of time after what I said to him? Yeah, looking forward to that.”

His dad just gives him another annoying, knowing smile and heads for the door to the garage, pausing as he pulls it open. “Oh and Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“When I find that fake ID, I’m confiscating it.”

“When?” Stiles asks with a grin. “More like if, Inspector Clouseau.”

That earns him a scowl and an empty threat of a grounding before his dad is gone, leaving Stiles alone with his hangover and his thoughts.

**###  
**

The idea of going to Derek’s loft to apologize to him and actually going to Derek’s loft to actually knock on the door and actually apologize, it transpires, are two very different things. He hovers in the stairwell, eyeing Derek’s door like it’s an unpredictable wild animal.

As he pulls his cell out of his pocket to check the time, for the fifth time since he got here, the unpredictable wild door slides open to reveal an equally unpredictable Derek, albeit one who looks less threatening than usual with a pillow crease on one cheek and bare feet. If he’d known that Derek apparently sleeps in until gone noon, he probably would have spent more time at home nursing his hangover.

“You planning on coming in?” Derek asks eventually, lounging against the door frame as he watches Stiles.

“Depends. You planning on disemboweling me?”

Derek shrugs at that, the expression on his face suggesting he's not quite ready to take disemboweling off the table just yet. Stiles pulls a face and shoves his phone into his back pocket before climbing the last few steps to Derek’s landing. Derek doesn’t bother opening the door any wider, just takes the barest minimum of a step to one side and stares owlishly at Stiles as he sidles awkwardly past, his back to the door so he can avoid being accused of getting all up in Derek’s business.

“And you know what,” he adds, the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach growing as Derek slides the door closed again and leans back against it, arms folded across his chest as he regards Stiles. “You can stop with the death glares and suspicious eyebrows, I’ve come to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“Seriously?” Stiles huffs. “You know what.”

“Do I?”

“Does being this much of an ass come naturally to you,” Stiles bristles, “or do you practice? For those text messages, if you so desperately want me to spell it out. I never meant to send them to you.”

“Hmm,” Derek responds, after what feels like an uncomfortably long period of time to Stiles but in reality is probably just a couple of seconds longer than is acceptable. “Want a coffee?”

“I – what?”

“Coffee,” Derek repeats, slowly, like Stiles is an idiot. He turns and heads for the kitchen before Stiles can response, leaving him standing dumbstruck in the middle of the loft.

“Look, I know it’s no excuse,” Stiles says as he trails after Derek, watching warily while he fusses with his fancy coffee machine, his back to Stiles, “but I was kind of drunk last night.”

Derek nods, but still doesn’t turn around and Stiles gets the feeling he’s waiting for something more. Derek’s still making a show of making coffee and Stiles shifts his wait from one foot to the other, cocking an eyebrow as Derek heaps, by Stiles’ count, _six_ spoonfuls of sugar into one of the mugs.

“And I’m sorry that I’m just one more person in what I’ll be willing to bet is a real long line of people objectifying you,” he swallows uncomfortably as Derek turns around and hands him a coffee, his expression unreadable. “We’re supposed to be, uh, friends, I guess? But I crossed a line.”

“Friends,” Derek repeats, expression unreadable and his gaze fixed on Stiles as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Yeah. Friends. But if I’ve made that too weird and you want me to go, then just say and I’ll go.”

To his annoyance, Derek stays quiet, continues staring at him like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite work out. Or maybe like he’s considering disemboweling him. It’s hard to tell.

“I’m going to go,” Stiles announces when the staring becomes too much. “Thanks. For the coffee.” He turns to put his untouched drink on the counter behind him, turns back to find Derek standing right in front of him. “Umm, hi?”

“So,” Derek asks as he leans past Stiles to set down his own mug, forcing Stiles to step back until his back is pressed against the counter edge. Except rather than stepping back again, he rests his hands on the countertop, one on either side of Stiles’ hips. “Out of interest, you don’t really want me to, what was it? Fuck you so hard you see god?”

“I’m – I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that,” Stiles says eventually. He shifts awkwardly; being the sole focus of Derek’s stare, being trapped against Derek’s kitchen counter, Jesus, hearing Derek say _fuck_ , is having an overwhelming affect on him and his jeans are definitely tighter and a little more uncomfortable around the crotch than when he first got here.

“Hmm,” Derek’s gazes flicks south for just a moment, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up like never before because of course Derek can tell he’s getting hard, there’s no way he can’t. Freaking werewolves and their _senses_. “I think you’ve already answered.”

Stiles gulps in discomfort and looks away from Derek, trying to think about anything besides how badly he wants to shove his hand down his pants and rearrange himself because his dick is starting to strain against his zipper and it kinda hurts.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Maybe,” Derek says quietly, leaning in closer so Stiles can feel his breath, warm against his ear, “maybe _I_ want _you_ to fuck _me_ so hard _I_ see god.”

“Like, now?” Stiles asks, automatically, because of course his brain hates him and makes him blurt out these kind of things. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or not when Derek doesn’t step away, although the quiet snort of laughter _does_ surprise him and he turns to look at Derek; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and before Stiles really has time to think anything else, Derek steps closer and holy schamoly, Batman, that’s Derek’s actual dick pressed up against his own.

“Sure, why not?” Derek replies with a casual shrug.

Sure why not? Even though he can feel the warmth of Derek’s body where he’s standing so close, even though Derek is watching him so intently, hell, even though he’s just a close encounter of the third kind with Derek’s actual dick, there’s something about the way he says it, the dismissive glibness of it, like Stiles has just asked him if he thinks it’ll be sunny tomorrow that makes Stiles’ stomach drop and not in a good way and he pushes roughly away from the countertop, forcing Derek to take a surprised step back.

“You couldn’t just accept the apology?” He asks; he tries to keep the hurt tone out of his voice, tries to will away the angry blush that he knows is spreading blotchily across his cheeks and neck, tries not to sound as pathetic as he knows he sounds. Tries, fails. “I get it, OK? You don’t have to make me feel even worse by pretending you’re – you’re –” he trails off, unable to find quite the right words for what he thinks Derek is and gestures towards the door again. “I’m out of here.”

“I – what?”

“I’m going,” Stiles repeats emphatically as he gestures towards the door, “so, you know, see you around. Or not. Whatever.”

He ignores Derek’s request for him to wait and hurries through the loft; and is halfway to the door when Derek catches up with him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to an abrupt stop. He spins on his heel and glares at Derek, who, to his credit, quickly takes the hint and let’s go of his arm, holding his hands up in surrender.

“I wasn’t – I’m not trying to –” Derek starts before running his hands roughly through his hair and down his face to cover his eyes and mouth; that does precisely nothing to muffle his loud, exasperated sigh. “I’m not good at this, ok?”

“Good at what?”

“People? Relationships?” Derek snaps, although as Stiles watches, he drops his hands and his expression softens. “At this,” he adds, gesturing between himself and Stiles. “At whatever this – this thing is between us.”

“Oh.” Stiles isn’t sure what else to say and they end up standing in awkward silence, watching each other warily. “Did you mean – actually, you know what, never mind. I, um, I think I’m still going to go.”

“Did I mean what I said?” Derek asks, moving to put himself between Stiles and the door. “Is that what you were going to ask?”

Stiles shrugs, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor, like eyeballing the stained concrete is the most important thing in the world.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Derek tells him.

“Well that’s patently not true,” Stiles replies with a snort of dry laughter. “You say plenty of things you don’t mean. You called me a pain in the ass on Thursday.”

“You _are_ a pain in the ass.”

“Am not.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I meant it. What I said.”

“About me being a pain in the ass?” Stiles asks, flashing Derek a quick grin.

“I absolutely meant that. But also the other thing.”

“So you still want me – you want –” somehow, it’s a whole lot more difficult to ask whether Derek would in fact _actually_ like him to fuck him so hard he sees god, in his kitchen or elsewhere, when there’s a physical distance between them. He resorts to making a vague gesture in the air and hoping that Derek gets it.

“Amongst other things,” Derek tells him, his tone almost shy.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks. He’s not sure who’s been moving towards who, or if they’ve both been moving slowly towards each other like a continental drift but Derek is suddenly a whole lot closer. “Like what?”

As they watch each other cautiously, Derek reaches out and curls one finger through Stiles’ belt loop, uses it to pull him closer. “This,” he murmurs quietly before closing the small distance between them and pressing an achingly sweet kiss against Stiles’ lips.

“I can work with that,” Stiles replies when Derek pulls away. “I can definitely –” he rests his hands on Derek’s hips, tentative at first, and returns the kiss, humming happily to himself as Derek’s bottom lip slips between his own.

If someone had asked him, at any point during the roughly three thousand years he’s been waiting, wanting, _needing_ , to kiss Derek, how he thought that kiss would go, it would not be slow and sweet, both literally and metaphorically, because he can taste the over-sweetened coffee on Derek’s tongue. And although it would be so, so easy to fist his hands in Derek’s tank top, to go from slow and sweet to greedy and urgent, to drag him over to the couch and grind against him, he’s kind of down with slow and sweet.

He nips experimentally at Derek’s bottom lip, opening his eyes in wonder at the moan that escapes, one that could only be described as pornographic and is surprised that Derek’s eyes are also open.

“You want –” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s lips, gesturing over his shoulder to Derek’s unmade bed, oh so inviting in its corner. Derek nods eagerly, hands tight on Stiles’ hips as he takes a step forward. It takes no effort whatsoever on Stiles’ part to go with it, to take the few paces backwards towards the bed, sitting down heavily when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

“I’m – uh,” Stiles gestures to his sneakers, hurrying to kick them off as Derek stands over him, cheeks flushed and semi tenting his sweats. “Do you – can I,” he glances over his shoulder at the bed then shrugs, shuffling backwards and lying down, like it’s his own bed he’s sprawling all over. “Yeah, you should probably, you know, join me.”

Derek does, flopping down beside him with less grace than Stiles would expect. He’s close enough that their arms are pressed up against each other, and although Derek’s bare foot is resting on top of Stiles’ own, he doesn’t make any attempt to move other than twitching his toes against the top of Stiles’ foot. 

“So this is new,” Stiles says after a moment, because he’s never met an awkward silence he didn’t want to ‘oh, yeah!’ Koolaid his way through. “For us, I mean. Together at least. I mean we’ve obviously both done the kissing thing with other people before and the, you know, deed.”

“You realize you’re saying these things out loud, right?” Derek asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Which means other people can hear you? Specifically, I can hear you.”

“You realize I say far worse things than this like, all the time?” Stiles counters, unconcerned, because if Derek isn’t aware of that by now, they’ve got bigger problems than his apparent distaste at Stiles using the phrase ‘the deed’. “You, who got texts that were meant for Scott where I waxed lyrical about your, uh, penis.” He gestures in the direction of Derek’s crotch, in case he’s forgotten where he keeps it.

“And what you’d like me to do with it,” Derek reminds him in a faux solemn tone. In case there’s a universe somewhere where Stiles has forgotten exactly what he said.

“And what I’d like you to do with it,” Stiles nods in agreement. “C’mere,” he half asks, half demands, tugging at Derek’s tank and sighing happily when Derek rolls onto his side and lowers his head to kiss him.

At some point, he’s not entirely sure when, they’ve crossed over the line from kissing each to Derek on top of him, his solid weight pressing Stiles down on the mattress, rolling his hips to match the way Stiles is rocking up against him. And Stiles is absolutely, one hundred percent on board with crossing that line because even with the uncomfortable tightness of his fly pressing against his dick, the sensation of Derek’s hard cock pressed up against his own is all sorts of amazing. Although not nearly as satisfying as hooking his leg over Derek’s and using it to pull him closer while he slips his hands under his waistband.

And oh, _of course_ Derek is going commando.

“This ok?” He asks as he slides one hand over Derek’s ass cheek and squeezes gently. He doesn’t get a verbal response, although Derek does nod and grind down a little harder against him, so Stiles takes that as a yes and squeezes again.

That earns him an utterly debauched moan and he grins into Derek’s hair, arching his hips up as best he can while Derek sucks another hickey above his collarbone and sliding his left hand down to join the grabbing-at-Derek’s-ass party. He presses the fingers of his right hand tight enough against Derek’s ass that he’d have bruises if he had the decency to bruise while letting his left hand slip between his ass cheeks.

He’s not stupid. He’s not about to cram his unlubed fingers in Derek’s ass, because that is the exact opposite of cool, but he does desperately want to touch. The noise Derek makes when he finally makes contact, urgent and impossibly needy, makes Stiles’ breath catch in his throat and he’s absolutely never going to tire of hearing that noise. He presses a little more firmly, earns himself another hungry moan from Derek and sighs happily himself as Derek nips at his neck and rocks harder, more erratically against him.

It shouldn’t feel so good, dry humping like a pair of horny teenagers, but it does, god it does. Being pinned against Derek’s bed under Derek’s reassuringly heavy weight, the feel of Derek’s teeth against his neck, of the way his hole flutters against Stiles’ touch, it all just feels _right_. He applies the barest hint more pressure, letting the tip of his pointer finger nudge inside Derek, who bites down, hard, teeth digging in where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder.

Stiles gasps at that and nearly just misses Derek’s hissed ‘oh fu–’ before he shudders then stills, his head buried against Stiles’ shoulder as he reaches back and pulls at Stiles’ arm until he takes the hint and extracts his hands from his sweats.

“Too much,” he mumbles.

 _Too much_? Stiles thinks, tilting his head further to one side to try and capture Derek’s attention again, rolls his hips again because Derek is still annoyingly immobile. He’s initially surprised by the hiss that elicits and before he realizes it, Derek’s scootched his knees up, just enough so that he’s not plastered against Stiles anymore and _oh_.

“Are you – did you just –” Stiles starts, lifting his head to try and get a better look at Derek.

“Shut up,” Derek mumbles, although there’s no malice in his voice.

“I’m not – I wasn’t going to – did you seriously just –”

“Yes,” Derek admits, grouchy and muffled, because apparently lifting his forehead away from Stiles’ neck is too much effort.

“Huh.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Derek lifts his head at that and attempts to glare at Stiles, although the effectiveness of the glare is completely lost on account of the way his hair is all mussed and stuck to his forehead, the flush on his cheeks and Stiles’ new found knowledge that he’s made Derek Hale come in his own pants.

“Just so you know, that is seriously, seriously hot.”

Derek scoffs, pressing a quick, bruising kiss against Stiles lips before shifting his weight so he’s back lying beside Stiles instead of on top of him. Stiles misses the heavy warmth of him immediately and tugs at Derek’s shirt to try and reposition him.

“Doesn’t feel great now,” Derek grouses as he pulls at his sweats. Stiles lifts his head off the pillow to admire the damp patch on the front of them. The patch that’s dark because Derek just came. In his own sweats. Because of Stiles.

“Should have let me help.”

“I didn’t exactly plan for that to happen.”

“Still should have let me help,” Stiles tells him, a shiver going through him when Derek hums in what he assumes is agreement and runs the warm palm of his hand across the flat of his stomach, thumb flicking idly at the fly of his jeans. “Or at least let me watch. You wanna, uh, clean up?”

Derek shakes his head and rolls off the bed, stripping off his tank and tossing to one side as he fixes Stiles with a pointed look. After a beat Stiles takes the hint and gets up too.

It should be weird, Stiles thinks as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it onto the floor. Undressing in Derek’s loft in the middle of the day as sunlight streams through the windows should feel weird, only it doesn’t. It feels right. As he watches, Derek shoves his sweats down and Stiles promptly forgets what he was supposed to be doing because, holy shit, there’s Derek’s cock, glistening slightly despite his attempt to clean himself up as he’d pulled off his sweats.

“Stiles?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring,” Derek smirks; he flops back onto his bed, one arm behind his head as he watches Stiles, looking remarkably confident for someone who came in his own pants.

“Well, hell yeah I’m staring, you’re just lying there being all – all, you know,” Stiles waves his hand in Derek’s direction in a bid to accurately capture exactly what Derek is being. Naked and beautiful, mainly. “I should, uh, yeah,” he finishes lamely, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them off before throwing himself down facedown onto the bed beside Derek.

As he turns his head to the side, Derek rolls towards him, sliding his hand across the small of Stiles’ back and pressing a kiss against his shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Derek echoes and moves closer, his stubble scratching over Stiles’ bare shoulder as he keeps kissing him, nudging at Stiles’ cheek with his nose until he takes the hint and lifts his head, returning Derek’s hungry kiss.

It’s not long before Derek’s rolling them both over, pushing Stiles onto his back and hooking on leg over Stiles’ own as they kiss like their lives depend on it.

“This ok?” Derek murmurs against Stiles’ lips as his hand finds its way below the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, his fingers curling lightly around his achingly hard cock while he waits for Stiles to respond.

And there is literally nothing that could stop the desperate moan that escapes Stiles’ mouth as he nods hurriedly, lifting his ass off the bed so he can shuffle his boxers lower, waistband hooked below his balls.

“Yeah,” he manages as Derek rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-come everywhere and starts to jerk him slowly. “Yeah, definitely, fuuuck, very ok.”

He feels, rather than sees, Derek smile and moans, catching Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth as he presses his thumb up below the head of his cock, almost identical to the way Stiles does himself when he gets himself off.

If he hadn’t just witnessed Derek coming in his own pants, he might be a little more self conscious at just how little time passes before he’s not really returning Derek’s kisses, before they’re just kind of breathing into each other’s mouths and then Derek moves away, dragging the tip of his nose along the side of Stiles’ neck, nipping at his earlobe as he murmurs into his ear.

“You’re close.”

Stiles nods helplessly because, yes, yes he absolutely is close, and he lifts his hips off the bed a little more to fuck into Derek’s fist, his orgasm taking him by surprise as he spurts all over Derek’s hand, gasping sharply.

“Huh,” he comments, his voice sounding sated and sex dumb even to himself as he pulls his underwear back up. “Well that was – wow.”

“Eloquent,” Derek laughs as he rolls away from Stiles to grab his abandoned tank top and using it to wipe Stiles’ come from his hand.

“Shut up,” Stiles responds, although there’s no heat. He moves towards Derek, sliding his hand up Derek’s arm and over his shoulder as he trails kisses around the swirls of his tattoo.

“I’m gonna, you know,” he murmurs against Derek’s back, “You, me, your kitchen, religious experience of some kind with a god of your choosing. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Derek hums happily and pulls Stiles’ hand away from his shoulder, guides it down to his cock which is hardening at Stiles’ touch.

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd link my tumblr here if I wasn't lazy


End file.
